Something About Him
by Feeling Sinister
Summary: Everybody loves Mark. EVERYBODY.
1. One

Okay. Well I'm delving into RENT fan fiction because I completely adore RENT and I guess I like to write.  
First I want to make it clear that I like to read fanfic. I don't especially like to write it because mostly I feel socially inept when I do so. But more than anything, I really really like to poke fun at things.

It should be known that I love RENT and all its characters. I don't have a problem with off-canon fics. I don't have a problem with Mark/Roger shipping mostly cause that shit writes itself. I don't have a problem with any sort of pairing, nor do I prefer anything over the others. I just think that it's funny how much play Mark gets around here... despite getting virtually none in the source material.

Perhaps it's because we all identify with Mark, the everyman, the one who's more than a bit neurotic,usually alone and would probablywrite himself into a hot and heavy Mark/Maureen anyway. When it comes down to it, this is my parody of all the Mark shipping that goes on around here. If you get offended, pretend I'm sorry and didn't mean to hurt your feelings.

I did not create these characters, save for a wordlessly incredible OC that will surface in Chapter Three or so.

Profanity and sexual references will come up, hence the T rating.

That was an idiotically long intro. I'll post more of this when I feel like it which will probably be soon thanks to boredom and spring break.

-------

"I just can't take it anymore, Roger," Mark's voice faltered, watching as his friend turned, a few paces in from of him, his sweatered torso heaving, doing little to keep out the driving rain.

Compassion washed across Roger's ruggedly masculine face as he lessened the distance between them with a few shaky steps. "What's wrong?"

Mark struggled to swallow the enormous lump in his throat and approached his roommate tenatively, the rain almost completely obstructing the crisp vision his glasses usually provided. His ice blue eyes gazed purposefully into Roger's deep green ones as he struggled to find the right words. "Roger, I love you."

This came as a complete and total surprise to Roger, who had been lusting after the scrawny blonde Jew for a while now. Roger took a brief moment to evaluate his thoughts in a way that would be expressed in a meaningful soliloquy or a song full of raw, heartfelt emotions were this a musical and not just a petty fan fiction. At twenty-seven, he was an unusually good-looking young man with a smokin' hot S&M dancer girlfriend whose small number of faults were included but not limited to the AIDS virus ravaging her body and a nasty smack addiction. The songs flowed freely from his pen, now, and his unmistakably trained voice always seemed to hit the right notes. He would have his entire life ahead of him were it not for HIV stopwatch, ticking away the hours, minutes, and seconds of his life. And yet there was always that passionate spark that ignited his heart every time his roommate crossed his line of vision... which, considering that they lived together, was pretty often.

He had confided this in Collins once, but the ever-intellectual philsopher dismissed it as acid reflux. And yet, the fire in his heart smoldered on.

And now here Mark stood, heart in his hands. Roger could almost see the ventricles contracting in anticipation as he mulled over his options. Should he abandon Mimi, whom he was actually pretty fond of? Should he risk cutting Mark's promising life short with the repeated episodes of sexual conduct he so longed for. Mark's blue eyes pleaded up at him from behind those water-spotted glasses. The suspense was killing him.

Then, in that back alley behind their favorite Chinese place with the cold rain drenching each of them to their very bones, Roger disregarded everything he knew to be sensical, pushed thoughts of his girlfriend (who was probably fucking Benny somewhere, anyway) aside, took Mark's face in his guitarist hands and made out with him, hardcore.

--

Afterthought:  
So it's mega short. As they progress, they'll get longer. In case you haven't figured it out, absolutely everyone falls in love with Mark. And that's about the entire plot so far.And... yeah...it's hella repetative. But I'll try and make it worth your time.


	2. Two

Since I wrote this so quickly, I might as well release it quickly, too.

Not my characters, barely my situations, etc.  
Constructive feedback well appreciated.

-----

"Honeybear, could you remember to grab some dish soap? We're out again," Joanne Jefferson called, hoping to catch her life partner Maureen on the way out to another audition of some sort.

"I'm in love with Mark," came Maureen's reply from the hall, then: "Shit! Did she hear that? OHGOD. I can't be in love with Mark. Pookie? Did you hear that? I don't love Mark or anything, I mean, what did you want, Pookie?"

Joanne's eyes darkened with confusion. Maureen was sort of insane sometimes, but Joanne had learned better than to doubt her love. She had begun to dismiss these outbursts assomething in the vein of schizophrenia."Dish soap. Thepans are filling upthe sinkand we're out of dish soap. Can you buy some on your way home from the audition?"

Maureen froze, her pale shoulders tensing up underneath her jacket, realizing she could potentially get caught in another lie. Her plan was not to audition for a play as she had told Joanne earlier. Far from it.Her plan was tostop by the Life, where Mark was sure to be hanging around, ideally crying into his cup of tea, she would enter with the most nonchalant of airs, spot him and sit and listen to all of his troubles and sorrows. Soon enough hesay something cute or funny, paving the way for her tostick her tongue in his mouth and her hand in his pants.

She had harbored the idea of getting back together with Mark for a while now. The concept dated almost as far back to the very moment she had dumped him for a woman.Although Joanne was there for her in a way skittish, detached Mark never could be, her thoughts never strayed far from the pale, nerdy boy that considered himself such a loner. If he only knew how much she longed to hold him! _Don't worry,_ she told herself, _He'll know soon enough..._

_--_

Perplexed by the silence in the entrance hall, Joanne stepped through the doorwayto get a look at exactly what her girlfriend was doing in there. Maureen stood in the middle of the hall, raincoated and silently talking to herself, those plump red lips enunciating words only she, herself was meant to hear. The Ivy-League-educated lawyer rolled her dark eyes and slouched back into the bedroom, in case her girlfriend should develop some telepathic mind reading power and overhear her dearest and most private thoughts.

Secretly, she could not care less abouthow Maureen's audition fared... as long as she was out of the house, it was more than okay; for tonight was when the plan that had been floundering around in Joanne's steel trap of a mind for weeks was to go into effect.

As soon as the sound of the lock on theapartment door latching reached her ears, Joanne was to go into the kitchen and get as completely shit-faced-wasted-drunk as she could manage. After this, she planned to haul her ass downtown to Avenue B, stagger her way up the stairs to the loft that had become oh-so-familiar to her over the past eighteen months and knock on the door until Mark answered (and Mark _would_ answer.) And then it would happen. She would look into those deep sapphireeyes, in which the ocean crashed, the birds flew, and the children played, and experience her first heterosexual makeout session in well over four years.

Silence drifted in from the hallway. Joanne peeked her head around the corner again to find Maureen standing there, lips pressed firmly together and eyes closed, as if she were closed-mouth kissing a ghost. "Mo? What are you..." her voice rang out, startling the woman's eyes open.

"Huh? Oh, Joanne I was just thinking of kissing Mark - I mean you - because I like to kiss you because I like _girls_ - like you," Maureen inhaled deeply, having expressed all this information in one breath, and, glad she had freed herself from any of her girlfriend's potential suspicion, grabbed her umbrella from its place behind the door and exited their shared apartment.

For a few moments afterward, the dark-skinned woman stood confused, in Maureen's wake. Had she heard her say...? No, that'd be stupid. Maureen was into chicks now. Why would she betray her sexuality for someone as safe and unassuming as Mark?

Joanne chuckled to herself as she headed for the bottle of brandy she kept under the kitchen sink.


	3. Three

This chapter is my favorite so far, as I think it should hit the hardest among people around here. Because almost as often as Mark ends up tying Roger to the bedpost with his scarf, he reunites with his gloriously gorgeous best friend from college or home or one of Mimi's beautifully obscure relatives and falls head over heels in love.

Yep.  
This chaptercommences my personal attack on the Mary-Sues of Alphabet City.

It should be pretty clear which characters in this chapter were dreamt up by me and which are the brainchildren of Jonathon Larson.

-----

Carmina Paulina Moonchild von der van O'Holenlibersteinen-Smith sighed heavily as she held her suitcases, looking up at the building that was to be her new home. She was an amazing painter or writer or something that had just moved to New York from Scarsdale, despite the protest of her parents, who either beat her bloody for acting on the desire to pursue her dream or had nearly disowned her after she dumped her alcoholic neurosurgeon fiancé at the alter three hours prior to this move.

Her waist-length blonde ringlets blew attractively in the breeze as she surveyed the run-down area. She watched a cocaine deal take place across the street, a dog raise its leg to urinate on a grafittied fire hydrant. _I'm so excited!_ she thought to herself, _Finally I can accomplish my dream, free from my oppresive parents/alcoholic neurosurgeon fiancé! _

As her gloved (not regular gloves, mind you, but the kind that homeless people supposedly wear sometimes... with the fingers missing and only the palms get any real protection... she shopped at thrift stores even though her wealthy parents and fiancé condemned her for being so Bohemian all the time) hand closed around the new doorknob, she was violently bumped into by a pair of blonde men that she could have sworn were holding pinkies.

"Sorry," the bespectacled one muttered, looking at her quickly before turning his attention back to the plaid-pantsed other.

Her baby blue eyes that sometimes turned greyish-purple lavender when she was feeling empathetic, hung-over, or gassy lit up in recognition. "Mark Cohen?"

The men stopped, the smaller one turning on his heel. "Yeah?"

It _was_ Mark!

--

Mark had been her first love, back in Scarsdale, where she lived her entire life except for when she attended Harvard for four years for a degree in veganism. They had shared a friendship full of late-night phone calls, cups of raspberry vanilla chamomille tea, and Friday nights at the nearby café where they would push tables together before spastically dancing on top of them.

She wondered if he still did that.

--

"Do you," her melodious voice quivered, "Remember me?"

Mark looked the blonde girl up and down. She wore one of those coats that people wore a lot... you know, with the (faux!) fur trim, a ruffled pink jean mini skirt, a purple tank top that sort of matched but didn't really, and lots of necklaces and earrings. Her eyes were turning a shade of greyish-purple lavender.

A squeeze on his right hand reminded him Roger was still beside him. The skinny, wonderful,blonde, Jewish documentarian wondered if the gorgeous rock god could sense all the retroactive feelings of love and affection rushing back into his body. "Car?" his voice shook, full of years of emotion.

"Marky!" she emitted a string of giggles and rushed into his arms, dropping her bags in the street where they were promply stolen by drug dealers and juvenile delinquents.

"I missed you so much," he confessed, Roger fading quickly from his mind. He had been crushing on her throughout elementary, middle, and high school and lusted after her when they went their seperate ways for college, he to Brown and she to Harvard. She was everything a boy could ever want: beautiful, intelligent, sympathetic, pretty, cute, smart, understanding, beautiful,caring, adorable, vegan, and gorgeous. He loved her so deeply that he neglected to mention her to _any_ of his New York friends or talk about her once in the five years he had been in New York.

She pressed against his thin body, grateful to have its spectacular warmth once again. "I missed you, too."

"Are you still dating Horrible McNeurosurgeon? Do your parents support your nonconformist artistic career choice yet?" He asked, recalling the times Carmeeny's hotshot boyfriend had given him wedgies and pushed him into lockers and she had come running to him in tears over another argument with her terrible parents.

A smile crossed her face, "No, no... Horrible and I broke it off. It doesn't matter now, nothing matters now. I'm so glad I found you." Should she tell him of the love that had been in her heart all along, through the taxing relationship with Horrible, through the family fights, shining into the amazing acting, dancing, or singing she had recieved so much acclaim for... should she tell?

"And I, you," he murmured, wondering if he should verbalize the adoration so importantto himthat he had kindled it internally for years without breathing a word of it, or even of Carmina,to his closest friends.

Stepping forth from the shadows, Roger groaned. This little blonde bitch was not about to prevent him from getting himself some Marksex tonight. "MARK. COME ON. I LEFT THE STOVE ON," he lied gruffly, adding an extra arm to their love equation to forcefully seperate the reunited possible lovebirds.

Carmina watched as the two boys started into the building. "Wait, Marky, you live _here?_"

Roger turned around, exasperated. "Yes, _we_ live here. Together. Both of us _men_ in an apartment with another _man. _We like to be around _men_."

"Ohmigod!" Car squealed, producing a key from her vintage jacket pocket. "_I_ live here!"  
Before Mark could express his excitement, the rocker grabbed him by the soaking wet sweatersleeve and dragged him into the building. He was fornicating with another man tonight and he didn't care how many tenderly oppressed twentysomething hearts he had to break to do so.

---

I can't believe that this story has as many hits as it does, despite only being up for about a day. It's already surpassed my two-year-old work I viewed as pretty successful, as far as page hits go.

Feedback is appreciated.


	4. Four

It probably comes off in this chapter that I don't like Collins. Which is untrue. Because I don't have any sort of character bias except, I guess, the fact that I lust after Adam Pascal.

Keeping the seriousosity out of this is increasingly difficult. I reworked this chapter so much and completely rewrote it once or twice, which is difficult when you have a social life to keep up... so I apologize because the time between updates is going to be increasing. As it is my spring break, I'm out with friends for the vast majority of my waking hours and school is next week... so... I'm going to try and continue this as best I can.

----

Tom Collins awoke to the rhythmic electrocardiogram beeping that had become so familiar to him during Angel's extended hospital stay. He struggled to sit up in the tiny bed, waking the small, dark-skinned girl who slept in the hospital's answer to a comfortable chair near the bed in the process.

Mimi's heavy-lidded brown eyes opened slowly, "Collins? Are you... Are you!" Excitement returned to her voice as her body awakened. She leapt off the chair and slid into the hallway on her stockings. "He's awake! Guys, he's awake, now!"

_Awake? _Collins wondered, puzzled as to why this was such an event. Suddenly, the reality of his surroundings set in. A team of doctors rushed through the door and began checking his vitals as Mimi tried desperately to be heard over the bustle.

"Collins, honey, you were in an AIDS coma for six months," she began, trying to keep her voice rational.

"An AIDS coma?"

"...Yes," she continued, "Your T-Cells just kept dropping and dropping and then Angel died and since, you know, she was the only thing really interesting about you, you just kind of slipped into a coma because you just weren't vital to the plot any more. I'm sorry, Collins, I..."

The ex-professor scratched his chin, where only a bit of stubble had grown during his comatose months. "But what does that have to do with AIDS?"

Medicine was not one of Mimi's expertises. In fact, most of Mimi's expertises were in direct conflict of modern medicine. "Uh... you... do have AIDS, don't you?"

--

Despite years upon years of continued education to fine-tune the impressive intellect Collins was already born with, there were still some things he just did not know. One of those was whether or not it was normal to be to be more than a little depressed that you had just awoken from a months-long coma.

He couldn't tell his friends. He couldn't tell them that while he lay unconcious in that bed for months on end, his darling Angel wasn't dancing through his head. No, that honor went to none other than his room mate, Mark Cohen. Cuddling with Mark, kissing Mark, walking down Fifth avenue, window shopping and holding hands with Mark... sex with Mark...

It had taken a life-threatening coma to do bring it on, but now, thanks to the newfound passion that he intended on expressing to Mark as soon as he could get himself free of this damn hospital, Thomas Collins was relevant to the plot once more.

--

Mimi placed a gentle hand on her friend's arm, secretly resentful that he had awoken from his month-long sleep. She had nothing against Collins, it was just that she spent all the free time being on coma-watch allotted her daydreaming. Once in a while she would picture marrying Roger, maybe having a few children, moving out of the city and into a suburb somewhere. But something just felt so _wrong_ about that fantasy. It wasn't _her_ at all.

Which is why, much more often that not, she found herself constructing elaborate sexual fantasies involving herself and her boyfriend's nerdy best friend Mark. Nevermind the fact that she rarely ever even spoke to the boy and that Roger was leaps and bounds ahead of him as far as physical attractiveness went... but there was just something about him that made her atria flutter.

Looking back, she could pinpoint the exact moment IT had happened. The fantasies had started, she'd begun to picture Mark when sleeping with Roger, had to restrain herself from calling out the wrong name, and - God forbid - strong romantic feelings began to stir up in her heart. It was impossible, useless even, to deny it: the key plot event of Collins awakening from a coma made Mimi realize that she was truly, madly, deeply, splendidly, wonderfully, madly in love with Mark.

"Mimi?" the raspy voice of Collins cut her thoughts short.

"Yeah?" Shit. Must feign compassion. She coughed, slipping into a kinder tone of voice, "I mean... yes, hon?"

The man struggled to a sitting position, quickly regaining motor functions. "I have something important to do. When can I go home?"

Her heart leapt. Home! Exactly where she wanted to be. Home was where Mark was. Home was where Mark was when she needed to confess her (probably) undying adoration to him. "As soon as possible," she affirmed, repeating herself for dramatic effect: "As soon as possible."

--

About half an hour later, they were on the street, heading back into Alphabet City. Suprisingly, it was very simple to get the newly-concious Collins out of the hospital. Everyone seemed to understand that it would delay the storyline horribly if everyone had to sit around waiting for such frivilous things as test results and doctors' permissions and the hospital was remarkably kind about just letting him... leave.

Collins' pace quickened as the building came into view. Mark was bound to be up there, idlly filming tea kettles or homeless earthworms or something. He wondered how much the boy missed him.

Noticing she was suddenly lagging a few steps behind, Mimi upped her steps to a trot, wanting to be the first one in the door. If Collins got there first everyone would be preoccupied with his "miraculous recovery" or whatever. And how much would that deter her love confession? Answer: a lot. She turned her head back to find Collins racing at her, full-speed, and broke into a run.

The two tore into the building, taking the stairs three- four- five-at-a-time! So engrossed were they for this unspoken race for Mark's attentions that they bowled over very drunk Joanne, standing on the landing outside the loft.

"Mark?" Joanne asked groggily from her position on the floor.

Collins stooped to help her up. "No, Joanne, it's me."

She hiccuped. "Mark, Inno this souns silly bet I shink Immin love wish you."

Without a word spoken between them, Mimi grabbed Joanne's Doc Martined feet, Collins took her by the arms, and they carried her downstairs to Mimi's apartment. Mimi produced a key and all of a sudden, the door conveniently locked from the outside. They secured the incoherent lawyer in her new prison, shook hands, and headed back upstairs. An alliance was formed.

----

What will happen next?  
Hell if I know, I'm writing this as I go along.  
I'll try and update soon.


	5. Five

It'5!

I don't own these characters.

---

Their shirts lay discarded on the loft floor, in a heap over the socks and shoes they had so quickly rid themselves of. Roger had his hands on his roommate's belt and was moving fast. Blonde bitch best friend was settling into her apartment on the first floor or writing or painting or grooming illiterate chinchillas (she had a wide variety of adorably quirky hobbies, he had soon leared), Mimi was at the hospital on Collins Coma Watch. There was no one left to interrupt. With a final tug, he liberated Mark's belt from his pants, grinning from ear to ear as Mark smiled up at him from his inferior horizontal position on the sofa.

And then: "Mark? Roger?" Mimi's voice floated in from the doorway. Shit.

The boys struggled to redress and remove themselves from their lovemaking position on the couch. "Yeah, _hun_?" Roger said dryly, making it no secret how fucking sick of her he was by now.

"Guys?" came a deeper voice.

Roger craned his neck to see the tall, thin form of Collins standing in the kitchen. Oh great. He'd awoken from his coma. _More _ado to prevent him from getting in Mark's pants. "Oh, hi," he managed.

Still shirt- and belt-free, Mark ambled into the kitchen, pulling Collins into a hug. "You're - how did you - what the...! I missed you, man!"

Collins held the smaller man tighter, "I missed you, too. I missed you so much that I think -"

"Whoa," Mimi interjected, "Collins, you have another old friend over there to greet." Collins made a face, dropping his arms and trudging over to Roger. "_I _need to talk to Mark anyway," she continued, pulling the boy by the arm out into the hallway.

"So... how was your coma?" Roger volunteered awkwardly.

--

As soon as the heavy iron door swung shut, Mimi pinned the blonde up against it and pressed her lips to his, hard. They kissed for a few seconds before Mark pulled away enough to ask what the hell she was doing.

She reached for his belt with one hand to find it already removed. "I... uh... I guess I love you."

"Mimi," he looked into her deep brown eyes, "You can't love me. We can't be together without Roger dying some agonistic painful death that drove us together. It just doesn't make sense."

Understanding crept into Mimi's face. She nodded slowly. "You're right. We can't have sex with Roger still alive. That would be stupid!" And with one more quick kiss, she disappeared downstairs to fine-tune the plan that had begun brewing in her mind, not even caring that she knocked over their surly-looking landlord, Benny, on the way.

--

At this moment, Benny was in his usual foul mood. As his character is usually portrayed in only one-dimension, he did not know any other way to be except completely and totally fucking pissed off. And then, as he ascended the stairs, a tiny ball of energy sometimes known as his ex-girlfriend Mimi hurtled into him on her way down the stairs, he stumbled back, lost his footing, and plummeted backwards down the stairs.

Instantly, Mark, who had been standing on the stairs and was the only other witness, came rushing down to tend to him. "Oh my gosh, Benny, are you alright? Does your head hurt?"

Benny nodded. His head did hurt.

"Oh gosh, come on, I'll help you up," Mark muttered, straining under the weight of Benny's muscular body.

As he was being tended to, Benny studied Mark. He was a good-looking guy, and God knows he was compassionate... he was probably pretty horny since everyone knew he hadn't gotten any ass in ages. He'd be a much more attentive lover than Alison ever was. So... sweet and kind... and, Benny looked into Mark's blue eyes... gorgeous...

Still dizzy from his fall, Benny closed his eyes, took Mark's adorably cherubic face in his hands and pressed the boy's lips to his.

--

"MARK?" came a beautifully shrill voice from further down the stairwell. A stunningly, strikingly stunning blonde girl bounded up the stairs, obviously confused by the site of her oldest, dearest, bestest friend kissing another man.

They were soon joined by a very intoxicated lawyer that had just escaped her prison of Mimi's apartment. "Mmmark?" she slurred.

The loft door swung open to make way for an immeasurably angry Roger and a woozy-looking Collins to join the quickly-growing crowd. "What is going on here, Mark?" Roger demanded while secretly wondering if Mark could start sleeping with Benny to pay their heating bill.

Next came the sound of Maureen's high-heeled boots on the metal stairs. She'd sat at the Life Cafe for hours waiting for Mark to arrive, having no idea about just how busy Mark actually was that night. "MarkIloveyouImeanIreallydoIjust... ewww! Benny?"

Mark pulled back out of Benny's embrace, surveying the amorous group that had gathered on the stairs. Could they really all be here for him? Since when did _anyone_ want him, yet alone these six people who, save for Maureen all those years ago, never gave him a _chance_ romantically. "What," he started after some time, "Do you all -"

--

He was quickly cut short by the arrival of Mimi. "Mark," she breathed, "I've found a solution! I'll make it work between us, don't you worry..." The group gasped as she produced the sawed-off shotgun usually kept under her kitchen sink "just in case" from her purse. She pointed it menacingly at Roger's torso. "I'll make it work... don't you worry..."

---

Um, I guess that's a cliffhanger.  
I don't really like this chapter at all.


	6. Six

This chapter contains violence. Somehow I doubt anyone will be too offended.

I don't own these characters.

----

Roger's green eyes focused on the barrel of the gun his girlfriend was pointing at him. "Mimi," he said calmly, "I know it was stupid of me to cheat on you - I just didn't know HOW stupid -"

The dancer laughed coldly, tightening her grip on the firearm, "I couldn't care less if you slept with every girl in the city! It's not like you're going to live to see tomorrow anyway!" Her laughter became menacing as she broke through the small crowd, each step towards Roger like a chilling reminder of just how much she suddenly adored his best friend.

"No!" came the voice of Mark, raising a pale arm in protest. "You can't _kill _him, Mimi! I _love _him!"

"Pookie," spat Maureen, eyes widening in horror, "You can't love _Roger_! Don't you understand? Joanne and I are supposed to get in a huge fight which culminates in my realization that I am still madly in love with you and my entire foray into lesbianism was really just a silly hard-to-get plot that never really resonated in my heart anyway!" She gave Joanne a hard shove to the arm, as if to get the ball rolling.

Still intoxicated, Joanne swiftly tumbled to the ground. "Nooo," she slurred from the cement floor. Her voice suddenly regained its crispness and articulacy to aid her in pleading her case. "Mark, do you remember when we danced that tango last Christmas? The one where we discussed the flaws of the woman we both loved? Well it made me realize that it is _you_ I love! I only stayed with Maureen all this time so that my parents wouldn't know I was heterosexual! I didn't want to risk them finding out about us, but now I couldn't care less! We're okay!"

"Joanne? Maureen?" Mark asked, puzzled. _They_ wanted him?

Before he could continue, his old friend Paulina grasped him by the arm, her cornflower-Cancun-at-early-sunrise-blue eyes that currently contained a hint of cerulean pleading with him. "I know all these people claim to love you, Marky, but you need to understand that it was I that loved you first! I've loved you ever since I first met you when we were tiny babies and we would take baths together! I want to take a bath with you now!" Mark surveyed her body. It was the pinnacle of physical perfection, of course. He wouldn't mind this, he decided. "I am currently writing a poem or book about how much I love you and I'm going to show it to my parents and Horrible McNeurosurgeon and everyone is going to -"

"Who the HELL are you?" Roger interrupted, forgetting for an instant that an angry Latina was pointing a shotgun at him.

"Carmina Paulina Moonchild von der van O'Holenlibersteinen-Smith," she replied, "But I have an assortment of quirky nicknames, including, but not limited to, Car, Carm, Carme, Carmi, Carmin..."

Roger leaned over the gun to his girlfriend. "How many bullets do you have in that thing?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Mark interjected, beginning to piece things together. "Carmina, you're in love with me?"

"No, Mark," Collins blurted, "_I'm_ the one in love with you. The love in my heart is so strong that it brought me out of the coma and back into relevance!"

Mark marveled at this for a moment. It was true.

Feeling a little ignored, Benny rose his voice and began to shout. "Mark, I love you so much that I am going to evict all of your friends if you don't promise to marry me and then engage me in M-Rated oral sex!"

"Finally," Joanne breathed a sigh of relief, having sobered up quite considerably during confession after deep-seated emotional confession, "An ethical plot dilemma!"

----

So, it's short. I forsee there being one or two chapters left anyway.  
School and PROM! are kind of assaulting my free time lately, I haven't had much time for writing.

I love me some feedback.


	7. Seven

I don't know where this came from. I tried to start this chapter about sixteen different times and have had an ungodly amount of schoolwork and social plans to balance. Then I uploaded it, reread it, and was disgusted, so it was taken down for revision.

Not my characters, usually not my situations.

----

The group held its collective breath as Mark seemed to be pondering what his next step should be. It was obvious some sort of nostalgic montage was playing inside his mind; mental pictures of those platonic-line-crossing moments he'd had with each of them (except that blonde girl, Roger mused, who the _fuck_ was that?), perhaps an upbeat 80s popsong such as "If You Leave" by Orchestral Manoevers in the Dark would be playing faintly in the background as scenes from their lives, pieced together much as he would have done after hours hunched over rolls of film to make up the metaphorical mental documentary that was all of his potential lovers.

"Guys," he said finally, sharply puncuating the long silence. There was a rush of breath as everyone exhaled. Mark waited a moment for breathing to resume its normal schedule before continuing."I think we need to take a," excitement and vigor entered his voice quickly. "ROAD TRIP!"

Mark looked around from one stupified face to the next, none seeming to have reacted the way he wanted them to. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" Roger cried after some time, "Where the hell are we supposed to get money to go to a road trip? Where are we going to drive, Mark? Hawaii? Should we all put on bathing suits and get lei'd in the sun? Did you see an A/U warning? 'Cause I sure didn't," he said disgustedly, "I can't believe I'm in love with you."

"I can't believe you are either," Collins spat, "All these years with you convieniently not paying any romantic attention to him... Now all of a sudden that he's a hot commodity, you're all over it. Funny, Roger, real funny."

Mimi laughed, lowering the gun for a second. "Oh please, Coma Boy, you got that all wrong. _I'm _just on board because it's the thing to do. Mark and Roger've been havin' those little homoerotic moments through the entire nullified sham that was our relationship!"

"Yeah," Mark chuckled, staring off into space. "Like that one time... when you came home drunk and I was all 'Are you okay?' and you were all 'Blargh' but then we totally hugged."

Roger stared at him blankly. "No, seriously. I can't believe I'm in love with you."

Tired of the attention being taken from his sinister plot, Benny spoke up: "Regardless of his intelligence level, Mark still has a descision to make. Get kicked out of your home... or have sex with me right now."

Before Mark had a chance to answer, an especially melodious female voice piped up from somewhere in the too-large crowd gathered on the stairwell. "Wait! Mark! Don't do it!"

Mark studied her for a moment: flawless alabaster skin, breathtakingly touseled blonde hair, picture-perfect model's figure. "Wait... who're you again?"

"How could you forget me, Mark?" she sniffled, raising an expertly manicured hand to wipe a tear from her eye. It was turning a spectacular shade of greyish-purple. "I'm Carrie Sue, your best friend/unrequited-love-who-changed-her-mind from college! I've been struggling with a terrible personal issue such as self-injury or sexual harassment and I thought that you could help me out of it! But your lack of enthusiasm and giant throng of admirers has me incredibly confused! I demand you tell me, Mark, what is the pairing in this story? Tell me, or I'll walk out of your life... AGAIN!"

"Wait," Roger stepped forward, ever the killjoy, "Aren't you the vegan with the neglegant fiance?"

"This hurts my head!" Maureen shouted, making a halfhearted grab at Mark's ass. It was dawning on her that she was meant to be the unintelligent bystander in this melodramatic goodbye scene.

"I'LL GO BACK TO MY PARENTS! I'LL GO CRAWLING BACK TO THEM AND AWFUL McCORPORATELAWYER AND REGAIN MY ENDEARINGLY TRAGIC VEGAN SOCIALITE LIFE!" Carmina-or-Carrie-Sue shrieked, breaking down into a dramatic fit of sobbing and crying that, while expressing her regret and the amount of snot stored in her nose, still managed to remain attractive.

The hunk of burning love that was Mark stood confused in front of this flawless creature, so vulnerabally exposed. What was he to do?

Luckily, Carmina knew what would come next. She belted out the classic _Les Miserables _ballad "On My Own" in a combination of English, French, Italian, and Pig Latin, poured out her feelings in a monologue so eloquent that even Maureen was moved to comprehension, and performed an adorable little soft shoe routine, down the stairs, out the door, across the street, and out of their lives.

"Wow," Joanne said after some time. "It looks like she loves you almost as much as I do."  
"And me," Collins said quickly, shouldering in front of the lawyer.  
"And me," muttered Roger, a blazing inferno of love blazing infernally in his eyes.  
"And me, Pookie," chimed Maureen, throwing the pet name in because... that's what she always says.  
"And... Mi... mi!" rang Mimi, so glad that I finally found a place to cleverly insert a partial song lyric that she forgot about the subplot from a few chapters ago that she was supposed to want to kill Roger. She nodded knowingly to herself, remembering this story had no direction. There would be later chapters for that, oh yes there would.

----

There, I camped up Carmina's exit a little more. She deserved it. Such a wonderful, beautiful, tragic, phenomenal, well-developed, attractive, gorgeous, intelligent, blonde, strinking, memorable, vegan, ostensible character.


	8. Eight

Hate this chapter, too. Realized it hadn't been updated in four weeks now and churned this out too quickly, post-midnight, and under the influence of some stupid substances. Apologies for not caring too much about this story anymore. :P

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As they had been out on the stairwell for two full chapters now, Mark knew a conclusion had to be afoot. A descision would have to be reached. If he didn't act quickly, he would never, ever settle down with his true love, finding fulfilling happiness in the process.

"Guys," he began, "I can't even begin to explain how much I appreciate this whole situation you've put me in. How, upon seeing this, so many nonstereotypical nobodies empathized with me enough to allow me to get with each of you in a multitude of different romantic settings."

Collins coughed.

The Jew looked at him, perplexed. "Did your catatonacy wipe out your memory? They've dreamt up at damn three rated-M romps for us, dear." With that, Collins seemed to look pleased and Mark continued. "But I sense that this tale is drawing to a close and frankly I just don't have any idea who to pick without it being ludicrously cliched and anticlimactic! You've got to understand that -"

"Maureen bored. Maureen want sex," cut in that daffy performace artist, arbitrarily groping at Joanne.

A confused look passed over Joanne's visage, as she looked from her of-couse-horny girlfriend to Mark, (obviously hurt by this interruption) whom she had loved for nearly a few hours now. "Sorry, Mark," she apologized, "The big words are turning me on and everything, but I guess I've remembered that I am indeed a lesbian." With that, she took Maureen's hand and the two entered Mark and Roger's loft, presumably to live out the fantasy of the majority of the fourteen-year-old boys out there.

Seeing them leave, Mark began to panic. If he didn't make a choice soon, he was going to wind up alone again! That would be a comic ending, wouldn't it? Everything returning to exactly the way it started... he couldn't have that! He wouldn't! "Er - uh, Well I guess I've decided to choose... Roger."

Instantly, the ear-shattering pop of a sawed-off shotgun reached their ears. Roger fell back onto Collins, blood beginning to trickle out of his left arm.

"Baby," he sputtered, looking in Mimi's direction, "You shot me."

Mark watched, helpless, as Mimi moved closer to their shared lover. "He can't be with you. He has to be with me."

The strained sound of an acoustic guitar filled the air as the Latina leaned over the not-quite-dying rockstar. A song was afoot. "Your eyes... the ones that took me by surprise... can't get them -" The song was cut short by Mimi's mouth on Roger's as they instantly began the process of heavy petting, sans any regard for the onlookers, HIV-positive blood spurting forth from the gunshot wound one of them had bestowed on the other only moments earlier, or the fact that they were straddling a rather perturbed Tom Collins at the time.

"No!" Mark shouted in vain as they went at it mere feet away from him. "No! You don't get it, Roger! I chose you, you're supposed to be with me! She just shot you, Roger!" Roger's arm went up from between the bodies of Collins and Mimi, bestowing Mark with a casual "forget about it" wave. Mark against the wall of the dingy stairwell. "How could he want her over me? She shot him for Chrissakes... It just doesn't make any sense."

Moving a little closer, Benny placed a sympathetic hand on Mark's knee. "It makes more sense than this ending up as a MarkRoger, hun."

Mark thought about it for a moment. "I know."

---

Sorry. Hopefully it will get better. The end is in sight!


	9. Nine

Randomly today I remembered that I never finished this story. I guess I stopped being inspired to write and... life happened.

Though a year may have passed, I still do not own the vast majority of these characters.

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Slowly, but surely, it was becoming clear to Mark Cohen that he needed to act fast if he was going to get _any_ action in this story. His sapphire-blue eyes darted around, providing a recap of sorts for the readers that have forgotten about this story over the past year. Joanne and Maureen had professed their love for him only minutes earlier, only to get impatient and remember that they were lesbians. His childhood best friend Carmena van der... van... von... Mark scratched his head. _Who_ was the girl that was here earlier again? Faint memories of unorthodox career choices and green-grey-lavender-cereulean eyes danced through his brain. He had no clue. Roger and Mimi had also been in love with him only seconds prior, until Mimi shot Roger in the torso and decided he looked smoking hot with a bullethole in his chest. They slumped in a corner of the stairwell, totally hooking up and spreading Roger's HIV-ridden blood about the corridor.

That left Benny.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. Benny wasn't exactly his first choice. Nor was he his second, or even his third. But when you've gone without any tail as long as Mark Cohen had, you would take what you can get. Besides, getting evicted from his apartment didn't sound like a bowl full of cherries, anyway.

Mark placed a delicate hand on Benny's cheek and began moving his face closer. Impatient, Benny rammed his lips onto Mark's. Tongues quickly entered the equation and the two men bent their knees to lower themselves to the stairwell floor. The two were raring to catch up to the lustful, bloody pace at which Mimi and Roger were moving only a matter of feet away, when a loud -CLUNK- was heard.

Collins, so quickly forgotten, had fallen out of importance, back into a coma and, thus, down the stairs.

"Collins!" Mark called, kicking himself for forgetting the Proffessor was still in the room. Collins was considerably hotter than Benny and easily ranked above him in the Would-You-Do scale.

"Collins!" Benny yelled, thwarted again.

------

What happens next is unimportant. Do Roger and Mimi finish having bloody, makeup hallway sex before rushing to Collins' aid? How long is it before Maureen and Joanne decide their romance is less important than the dangerous-sounding thud produced when Collins' head hit the pavement? Just how pissed does Benny get?  
No, the next thing shown to you, dear reader, is a hospital scene. Collins lays in the bed by the window, eyes peacefully closed and head bandaged. Roger shares the same room, attractively shirtless, but with a bandaged torso. No one is asking how these jobless bohemians are paying for a New York City hospital stay. Pathetic, radio-friendly love songs are playing over the hospital PA system, the likes of Kelly Clarkson or that one country song they play every year at Prom. Somehow, the lyrics relate directly to the love felt by the characters at this moment in time.

"Is he going to be okay?" Mark asked the nurse, genuinely concerned.

The nurse frowned. "Well, he _is_ in a coma... I've arranged a surgical consult for you folks. If you'll stay around, the doctor will be with you shortly." She left the room, leaving the two invalids, their four friends and landlord in peace.

"This is all your fault, Mark," Joanne said with disgust. "If you'da just slept with Collins in the first place, he would still be plot-important and not be in a thematic _coma_."

"_And_ why'd you have to seduce my girlfriend and make her shoot me?" Roger asked, awaiting the removal of the bandage with secret glee: he was sure to have a badass scar as a result.

Maureen stepped in front of Mark, snapping her fingers for attitudinal effect, "There is almost NO way you could make life any worse for us right now. I can't believe I almost took you back."

At this moment, the door opened, wanting to add some situational irony into the mix.

A tall doctor stepped into the room, folded his arms evilly, and surveyed the scene.

"You must be here for our surgical consult," Joanne volunteered, stepping up to shake the man's hand. "I'm Joanne Jefferson, Mr. Collins' friend and I'm positive you'll do a lot of neurological good, Dr..." Joanne stopped short, realizing the unspeakable misfortune Mark had brought upon them.

"McNeurosurgeon," the doctor said, his cruel grey-black-midnight blue eyes fixed firmly on Mark, "Horrible McNeurosurgeon."

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Okay. That was short and bad and probably past the point of relevancy, but maybe I'll try and finish this. Please review and tell me what YOU think.


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